🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine beverages and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a public line only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some friendly chat started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.